Radio Song

There’s a tune now on the radio
that sounds Irish, English maybe, somehow
differently abled than the American one
that preceded it;

maybe the DJ was thinking
of changing up four songs ago but just
got around to it and is quickly back
to a singer-songwriter from around here,
possibly;

it’s almost ten o’clock
after all and she has to keep up with
the times, the rhythm of the times,
changing it up as she sees fit between
thinking of her lover, the dishes undone
at home, the state of the nation and
the world;

it’s criminal how we are supposed
to ignore all that while we listen
and she programs music to accompany
our resignation to the order of things;

even now the dark planes fly toward
Teheran, toward new names in
Mesopotamia, toward Cuba, toward
anything the doddering old fool
in the deconstructed White House
directs;

meanwhile the radio keeps time,
the listeners keep time, the whole serene fix
of the nation keeps the strictest of time;

those songs on the radio go on
as if nothing is changed
beyond bombs over Iran far, far away,
away from the pensive thoughts of the DJ
thinking about where her choices came from —
away from Irish, English, old blues,
singers local to Boston and beyond;

thinking of them as nothing happens in her world
beyond her choice of the next song
and the dread that won’t go away.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T